THE FAT MAN

It began with a bump outside the Regis Hotel, that enormous and somewhat elaborately architectured edifice which domineeringly overlooks the Green Park in Piccadilly.

The day was warm and sunny, with a light breeze that fluttered the trees all the way down from Knightsbridge and went airily on until it lost itself somewhere in the eddies of petrol fumes, mechanical cacophony of the traffic and bitterly colourful profanity of taxi-drivers swirling round Piccadilly Circus.

Jimmy and Sandra had strolled through the Park, enjoying the sunshine that brightened the greenness of the trees and foliage and experiencing that certain zip in the air, which is London’s own individual characteristic, no other city knows. Their conversation was light-heartedly inconsequent, and a glance at his watch told Jimmy they had timed the end of their sauntering to coincide neatly with a pleasurably anticipatory sensation in the region of the larynx and the immediate proximity of the Regis Hotel American Bar.

With the prospect of pre-lunch apéritif bringing a decided lightness to his step, Jimmy, with Sandra on his arm, crossed over to the hotel and was about to urge her towards the great swing doors when a man, turning quickly from the taxi he had just paid off, cannoned into them. Fortunately for Sandra, Jimmy was between her and the man, his lean frame warding off the other, who was a large rotund individual. In fact it was the latter’s stomach, that region of his anatomy being expansive and vulnerable, which took the full blame of the impact. Its owner emitted a cry of not inconsiderable distress, and rocking backwards on his feet, clasped expensively gloved hands over his injured protuberance, opening and shutting his mouth, fish-like, as he tried to regain her breath, all this to the accompaniment of a sustained rumbling groan.

Sandra moved towards him with impulsive sympathy. “Are you all right?” she asked anxiously.

The man could only gasp and nod his head affirmatively, still unable to produce any words. Jimmy had grasped his arm to steady him, and was now patting his thick shoulder sympathetically. “Sorry I happened to be in the way,” he said.

“My—my fault—” the corpulent individual managed to wheeze. “My fault—entirely.” He began to move towards the hotel entrance, Jimmy still keeping a firm hand on his arm.

“I should park yourself for a minute,” he suggested.

“No—no.” The other contrived to force a wan smile. “I’m all right, thanks.”

By now, the commissionaire, witnessing the incident, had come forward solicitously, and with him lending a hand, the trio moved into the hotel vestibule, Sandra following.

“What about a spot of—er—tonic to help pull yourself together?” Jimmy asked, as they paused on the other side of the swing doors.

The fat man’s face brightened at the suggestion. “Couldn’t think of a better idea,” he said.

He was obviously very much recovered from the effects of the collision, his breathing was less stertorous and his plump features were regaining their colour. The commissionaire pocketed the generous tip that was placed in his waiting palm and withdrew. Jimmy, with regard for the other’s corpulence and present incapacitated state, indicated the lifts that bore seekers after prospective libations down to the lower ground floor where the American Bar was located. The man’s progress was rather more active now, though he still continued, gently, to massage his stomach with one hand, as Jimmy and Sandra accompanied him towards the down lift.

“American Bar.”

“Yessir.”

The lift-doors slid together with a sibilant murmur and down they went.

They found a quiet corner in the crowded bar and, while the large man relaxed with a sigh of contentment in a luxurious plush chair and Sandra made some bright small-talk, Jimmy attended to the important business of procuring the drinks. The white-coated waiter returned promptly with his order and placed the drinks on the table before them. Gin-and-orange for Sandra and a Scotch for Jimmy and the other.

Followed the usual necessary pause in the conversation. Then, his chubby face pink and shining and his eyes bright, the big man lowered his glass to observe:

“Just what the doctor ordered, eh?”

Jimmy grinned at him in agreement. He said:

“Makes the world look brighter all right.”

The other said: “Well, the way we met was a bit on the painful side for me, but anyway I’m mighty glad to make your acquaintance.” And he gave Sandra a smile composed of friendliness and admiration.

“You’re really feeling all right now?” she queried.

He nodded. “Knocked the wind out of my sails for the moment, but I’m okay now.” He turned to Jimmy. “Of course, as I expect you’ve noticed, I’m not exactly what you might call a local boy.” He chuckled and continued; “No, I’m a few miles away from my hometown all right. New Zealand’s where I hail from, little place near Auckland.” He leaned back, a thumb in his waistcoat, his face taking on a reminiscent expression. “Yes…made my little packet—sheep, y’know—and thought I’d like to come over and take a look at the Old Country. Parents were English, North Country folk, as a matter of fact.”

Sandra contrived to look suitably interested and impressed by the fat man’s success-story, while Jimmy idly waited for the opportune moment when, without betraying his impatience too obviously, he and Sandra could beat a retreat to the restaurant.

The man from New Zealand was saying: “By the way, my name’s Hodson, Sam Hodson.”

Jimmy introduced Sandra and himself.

“Arrived here yesterday, I did,” the other went on. “So haven’t had much time to see around. But from what I have glimpsed of it, London’s quite a town. Eh?”

Jimmy murmured something to the effect that the place had its moments.

“Got a young nephew over here,” Hodson said. “Only relative I have—y’see, I’m not married.”

“Aren’t you?” said Sandra, her eyebrows raised flatteringly to convey she found it difficult to understand how anyone so eligible had managed to keep clear of the scores of designing charmers who must have swarmed around him. Jimmy’s glance derisively mocked at her efforts to keep the conversation going. He knew she was bored too, and wanted to beat it to the restaurant as urgently as he did.

Hodson burbled on in his fat voice: “Yes, Charles—my nephew—is studying to be a chemist. Clever boy, too. Doing well. And believe me or believe me not, we hadn’t met until this morning. ’Course we’ve corresponded since he was so high.”

Sandra said: “Really?”

Jimmy followed up with: “Amazing!”

The other glanced at his opulent-looking watch. “Just on one. Should be here any minute. Like you to meet him.”

Jimmy realized the chap would feel disappointed and sadly hurt if he and Sandra made their impatience to escape appear too apparent—and he wasn’t a bad sort, well-meaning and eagerly anxious to talk to someone in a strange country. At the same time, Jimmy didn’t want he and Sandra to get involved in several rounds of drinks with the fat man and his cherished nephew. At that moment he happened to catch the eye of the barman, who was an acquaintance of long standing—or leaning. Hodson being engrossed in giving Sandra further details from his life-story, Jimmy was able to convey by winks, assorted graphic facial expressions, and nods in the direction of the telephone-booth in the corner an indication of the subterfuge he had in mind.

The barman, sharp-witted and imaginative, caught on almost at once. He answered with a sly grin and nod which said: “Leave it to me, I’ll take care of it,” and Jimmy relaxed and left it to him.

He turned back to Sandra and Hodson just as the latter broke off his conversation to call out to a man wearing horn-rims and a wide smile who was approaching: “Hello, Turner—what are you going to have?”

The man called Turner’s smile stretched wider. Hodson muttered to Sandra and Jimmy: “Friend of mine, met him here last night. We got really pally. Good sort.” And beaming expansively upon the newcomer, who gave him a hearty slap on the shoulder, reiterated: “What’s yours?”

Jimmy caught Sandra’s fleeting expression of despair before she replaced it with the same fixed smile she’d been wearing for the last ten tedious minutes.

“I could use a sherry, thanks,” the man in horn-rims was saying to Hodson, who screwed up his face in disapproval of the other’s choice of apéritif.

“Sherry, bah! Never drink it—”

“No?” was the smiling response. “Sherry before lunch—or dinner—port afterwards, one of my rules.”

“Port—filthy stuff! Never drink it. You ought to stick to this”— indicating his glass and Jimmy’s, to whom he looked for agreement. “Eh?”

Jimmy shrugged. “One man’s treat is another man’s poison,” he smiled. The fat man chortled and the other’s eyes twinkled behind his glasses. Hodson ordered his drink from the waiter, then introduced Sandra and Jimmy, launching into a description of the circumstances of their meeting with him outside the hotel. He had reached the end of his account, when a youngish man strode briskly towards them from the direction of the lift, and hailed him as “Uncle”.

Sandra flashed Jimmy a glance of appeal that carried a touch of desperation in it. Her look told him if he didn’t get them out of this and make it snappy, she would never have any faith in him again over anything. He grinned back at her reassuringly, before eyeing Hodson’s nephew who was being introduced by his uncle in a voice that fairly quivered with pride. His name was Charles Vernon. Jimmy privately thought he was a not particularly prepossessing specimen of young manhood. Maybe it was the too-close set of his eyes or the weak droop of his mouth, but he instantly summed him up as not much good. There was something almost pathetic about the fat man as he eulogistically praised his nephew’s qualities.

Any further speculations Jimmy may have indulged in regarding young Vernon, however, were brushed aside by the interruption he had been awaiting arriving in the person of the barman, who had hurried over, his face clouded with a harassed expression.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said to Jimmy, “but they’ve just phoned down from the restaurant to say Mr. North has been waiting for you over ten minutes.”

Sandra stared at the barman wide-eyed. Then she saw Jimmy reacting as if the message was causing him the gravest concern. He glanced at his watch and clicking his tongue impatiently exclaimed:

“Dear me, I didn’t realize it was so late. Ask them to apologize to Mr. North for us and say we’re coming right up.”

“Very good, sir.”

The barman bowed gravely, pocketed the tip Jimmy slipped him and hurried off. With raised eyebrows Sandra stared at his departing white-coated back—which seemed to suggest that its owner was concentrated on delivering a message of the most vital importance—and returned her puzzled gaze to Jimmy. He took her arm, giving it a little extra pressure as he turned to the three men.

“Afraid we must be moving,” he said to Hodson, his smile including the other two; “old friend of mine up from Cornwall—really mustn’t keep him waiting any longer.”

“Of course, of course,” the fat man said, using Jimmy’s hand like a pump-handle. “Very glad to have met you, and—” beaming at Sandra—“this very charming young lady.”

She beamed back, there followed appropriate murmurings from Turner and the nephew, then Jimmy and Sandra headed like arrows for the lifts. As they waited for the lift-doors to slide together after them, Sandra breathed an eloquently thankful sigh and said: “I can hardly wait to meet your pal from Cornwall!”

Jimmy’s attention seemed attracted for the moment by the liftboy, who appeared not to have noticed them and was deep in rapt contemplation of a small object he was holding.

The youngster, conscious of his look, glanced up at him and said cheekily: “Crikey! Some fellers gets all the fun, don’t they? See what I mean—”

Jimmy found himself regarding a snapshot of two men and two girls. The girls were pretty and pert in the briefest of swimsuits. The men also wore swimsuits and their arms were twined affectionately around the girls’ waists, which, by their wide smiles, both lovelies seemed to find eminently enjoyable.

“That young one just dropped it,” the liftboy said, jerking a grimy thumb towards the trio from whom Jimmy and Sandra had just made their escape.

Jimmy said: “You’d better give it him back. May be a souvenir of his most romantic memory.”

The youngster giggled. “I’ll take you up first,” he said, pushing the snapshot into his pocket, adding with a knowing look: “Crikey, but I bet he’s a one, sir—don’t you?”

“Shouldn’t wonder,” responded Jimmy, though somewhat absently, “shouldn’t wonder at all.”

The lift bore them smoothly towards the restaurant.

After the waiter had disappeared with their order, Sandra said: “Frightfully witty of you thinking of Mr. North from Cornwall— but how did the barman know about him too?”

“He’s psychic.”

“And—?” Sandra encouraged him.

“While the fat boy from the sheep-farm was engrossing your attention, I went into a trance.” Jimmy smiled at her tenderly.

She said: “I was practically sleep-walking myself I was so bored. But do go on… So you went into a trance.”

Jimmy pressed a hand to his brow in a mock dramatic attitude of concentration.

“It’s difficult to remember after that,” he murmured, “everything became misty, dark…”

She was laughing now, in that delightfully attractive way of hers, so Jimmy paused and looked at her and forgot the comedy, forgot every little thing except how adorable she was.

“Well, anyway,” she was saying, “thank heavens the barman was psychic. I was terrified we were going to get involved in the dreariest party—” She caught his glance and broke off to study him with a quizzical little smile.

She said: “Which would it be, darling? Do I look like hell, or have you gone into another of your trances?”

“I was just thinking about you.”

“In the nicest kind of way, of course?”

“It always is that way when I think about you.”

She sighed, as if to say it was old stuff and she didn’t believe it; but her eyes were bright. He made it sound new and difficult not to believe, the way he said it.

He put his head slightly on one side. He said: “Want to know something, darling?”

She said: “I might as well.”

“That fat geezer and those two with him—something a trifle off-key about ’em.”

“Forgive me, darling,” she said sweetly, “but you have me just the tiniest bit confused. Your brain’s too agile, it gets around so. I thought for the moment I was on your mind, not the fat man.”

“Just remembered noticing the way you kind of recoiled when that nephew character breezed his way in,” he said.

“Was it so obvious as that?”

“I merely happened to catch your first fleeting reaction, that’s all. You covered up.”

“Expect my face had got so tired of that fixed smile I’d been wearing, it felt it simply had to be itself for a moment or scream. Anyway, I took a poor view of the nephew—sly-looking piece I thought.”

He nodded.

She said: “But why are we talking about them? We could talk about the weather, or what we’re going to do this afternoon, or—” She broke off to ask suddenly: “Jimmy, d’you think he isn’t really his nephew, that he’s one of those confidence tricksters or something, after the fat man’s money that he’s made out of all his sheep?”

Jimmy said with certainty: “He’s not a ‘con’ man.” He didn’t think it necessary to add that he knew, by sight and reputation, pretty nearly every operator in London working that line of business, and was in fact acquainted with several of those smooth and polished gentlemen. He added: “Whether he’s a relation or not is something else. Though I imagine old Hodson must have good reasons for believing he is. After all, they’ve been corresponding with each other for years.”

“That’s all right, then,” Sandra said.

Jimmy was about to offer some observation to the effect that there were more ways of polishing-off pussy than popping it down the well, when the waiter halted the hors d’oeuvres trolley at their table and he at once gave his full attention to the array of dishes and their succulent contents.

When presently the waiter pushed off with his trolley, Sandra glanced round the restaurant and remarked:

“Supposing that bright trio come in for lunch in a minute—they can’t miss our table—how’ll you explain the absence of your impatient pal from Cornwall?”

“Sam Hodson and party won’t be lunching here,” said Jimmy easily, as he impaled a portion of anchovy. “In fact, the old boy never eats in the restaurant, but always in his private sitting room.”

She looked at him with a certain wonderment. “How on earth d’you know that?”

“The maître d’hôtel murmured the information in my ear when we came in,” he said. “Foreseeing the possibility you’ve mentioned, I’d inquired about the chances. That was while you were smiling at the dark, handsome waiter who led you to this table,” he reminded her with a grin.

“Come to mention it, he is somewhat good-looking in a sort of way,” she said. “Rather your type, only of course nothing like so repellent.”

“I’m glad,” Jimmy said.

She laughed at him, then said: “You think of practically everything, don’t you? Finding out about the fat man, I mean.”

Jimmy didn’t reply at once, and Sandra gave him a quick glance from beneath her thick lashes, wondering a little at his faraway expression. But she didn’t say anything; he’d only duck the question if he didn’t want to answer it, and he’d come back in a minute anyway.

That was how it was with Jimmy Strange.

* * * *

The following morning:

Jimmy, attired in a dark dressing gown, was sitting down to breakfast. He had just come from under a cold shower preceded by a hot tub, his razor had skimmed his jaw like a dream, there was an inviting aromatic smell of coffee in the air and he felt really good. He glanced idly at the newspaper folded on the table, and picked it up without any special curiosity. The headlines, as usual, were trying their damnedest to make him hit the ceiling with excitement as they leapt up at him from the front page, and he wondered, with casual amusement, if editors honestly believed the screaming scare-type searing the page with daily monotony had the slightest effect on the majority of readers, other than maybe drawing from them a tolerant chuckle or two.

And then halfway down, where the headlines ended and where in the little space remaining, it was possible to read some actual news, he came upon the report of Sam Hodson’s death. Just for a second the penny didn’t drop, the name didn’t ring a bell. Yet in that fraction of time something in his brain clicked, so that when his eyes had narrowed with interest it was as if the news hadn’t hit him smack out of a clear sky. It was as if by some queer trick of prophetic vision he’d been expecting to read it.

According to the short account, Hodson had died at his hotel the night before. ‘New Zealand Sheep King’, he was described as, and Jimmy thought that for once, if unconsciously, the reporter had concocted an exaggeration that would not have displeased the person so described. Old Hodson would no doubt have taken great pride and thoroughly enjoyed the title that had been conferred upon him. His death, the report added, had occurred suddenly, while he was dining with his nephew in his private room. Charles Vernon’s version of the tragedy was briefly quoted, and as he read it Jimmy’s mouth tightened. Carefully he read the paragraph through again. It said it all right. There in black and white. He stared through the paper, and once again his mind’s eye saw the nephew striding across the Regis Hotel American Bar and hailing the fat man. Jimmy was remembering the eyes too close together for anybody’s good but Charles Vernon’s, plus the weak, greedy droop of the mouth corners.

Jimmy finished his breakfast, lit a cigarette and leaned back to put in some constructive thinking. The phone jangled, he lifted the receiver.

“Good morning, darling, and I hope you slept well.”

Sandra, who hadn’t spoken, said: “How did you guess?”

Jimmy said: “What had I got to lose if it wasn’t you, darling?”

“Quick as a flash you are, even so early in the day.”

“Would you have believed me if I’d said my heart told me it was you?” Jimmy said tenderly.

“No.”

“That’s what I thought.” He went on smoothly, “What’s on your mind, Sandra?”

“I’ve just seen in the paper Sam Hodson died suddenly; remember—the fat man?”

“I remember—the fat man.”

“Poor thing!” she said. “Gave me quite a shock. I wondered if you’d read about it, too.”

“I read about it.”

“Yes, I might have known you’d have spotted it.” She paused a moment, then said: “That was all, Jimmy.” And added brightly: “Well, it’s given us something to talk about.”

“There are plenty of other topics I could find to talk over with you.”

“Such as?”

“You’d have to come closer.”

She laughed softly. Then:

“Jimmy, you don’t think…? I mean—I suppose it’s silly, but how d’you think the poor man died?”

A short silence. He wondered if she’d noticed the significance of the paragraph that quoted Charles Vernon. She took, among others, the same newspaper. He said slowly:

“Meaning just what?”

“Well, that sinister nephew of his, and—” She broke off with a little laugh. “Oh, I expect you think I’m just babbling—”

“I’d rather listen to you babbling than anyone else talking sense. You have a very cuddlesome voice.”

“Darling!”

He realized she hadn’t seen what he’d seen in that paragraph. He said easily:

“I expect it was just natural causes. After all, he couldn’t have been in too good condition, carrying all that weight around with him.”

She agreed, and presently Jimmy hung up.

He lit another cigarette and completed his dressing. His reflection in the mirror, as he carefully brushed his hair and meticulously knotted his tie, was slightly sardonic with a flicker of amusement at the back of his eyes. Outside he walked a little way before hailing a taxi. The driver was one he knew.

“Mornin’, sir.”

Jimmy grinned at him.

“Where would you like me chariot ter transport yer this bright morning?” the other inquired. “If yer’ll pardon me putting it so poetical-like.”

“Scotland Yard,” Jimmy said.

“Cripes!” was the somewhat un-poetical response. “Don’t say they’ve pinched yer at larst?”

“Cut the comedy and get going.”

“Yessir”—and got.

The atmosphere of Inspector Crow’s office was already hazy with the smoke from his bubbling pipe, as the detective hunched himself over his desk. Among the various noteworthy features characteristic of Inspector Crow was his chronic inability to sit at his desk. He habitually leaned his ponderous bulk against it, his beetling ginger brows almost sweeping its surface as if engrossed in some tangled skein of mystery that required every atom of his concentration to elucidate. True, there were occasions when the case of which he was in charge did provide as nasty a headache as any Scotland Yard official could wish for anyone else in the building to wear. At the moment, however, Inspector Crow, bowed Atlas-like in his chair, with a shaft of sunlight slanting across his rusty grizzled head so that it glinted like an old brass kettle, was merely going over the routine morning correspondence.

In response to his aggressive barks of invitation, the door opened and admitted Sergeant Warburton. The Inspector glanced up at him with a scowl, and then seemed to bend even lower over his desk again, as if the other’s entrance added to the burden of responsibility he bore. Warburton usually waited for his superior to snap at him before he ventured to speak. But on this occasion he advanced into the room with ill-concealed animation on his prim features and said:

“What do you think, sir?”

Inspector Crow raised his head wearily and eyed the other with active abhorrence.

“All right,” he said, attempting a grotesque mimicry of the Sergeant’s precise tones, “what do I think?”

“Guess who’s outside asking to see you,” went on Warburton, undaunted by his somewhat unencouraging reception.

Inspector Crow choked, pushed back his chair and exploded: “What the ruddy hell’s the ruddy idea? Prancing in here like a flaming circus horse and asking me what do I think and guess who! What is this, a ruddy game of postman’s knock, or kiss-in-the-ring, or ruddy well what?”

Sergeant Warburton blushed to the back of his neck, pursed his lips disapprovingly before he announced:

“It’s Mr. Strange, sir—he’s called to see you.”

The other’s heavy jaw sagged so abruptly it was almost possible to hear the click of the muscles that hinged it.

“Str—Strange?”

“I thought you’d be surprised, sir,” said Warburton complacently.

“Outside, you say?”

The Sergeant nodded. “I asked him to wait.”

“What in thunder does that pest want?”

“Well, sir—he—er—that is—”

“Don’t stand there mumbling, what’s he after? What did he say?”

Warburton hesitated, mumbled, and hesitated again. “Well—er—he asked to see you, sir—”

“You didn’t expect him to ask to see my white-haired old mother, did you?”

The other ignored the sarcasm. “As a matter of fact, I considered his manner was inclined to flippancy—”

Crow banged his pipe down on the desk and grated through clenched teeth: “What does he want?”

Sergeant Warburton coughed uncomfortably. “Since you ask, sir,” he said, “Mr. Strange put his request rather crudely—er—well—he asked me was I permitting visitors to view the old rhinoceros today…” He coughed again. “Naturally I failed to comprehend him, and so he—er—elucidated—”

He broke off to glance anxiously at the Inspector, who was breathing heavily, his face a startlingly purple shade. With a bellow that rattled the windows in the office, and mouthing horrible threats Crow started for the door. The Sergeant stepped nimbly out of his path. As he reached the door, it suddenly opened, and he pulled up with a jerk, every hair of his ginger eyebrows bristling, his jaw thrust forward like the front of a steamroller.

“Hello,” said Jimmy Strange, leaning negligently against the door-jamb; “delightful weather we’re having.”

He puffed a cloud of smoke from his cigarette and strolled into the room. Eyeing Crow’s face, he flashed him his most charming smile and inquired pleasantly: “Or d’you find it somewhat sultry for the time of year?”

Inspector Crow glowered at him silently, except for a curious whinnying sound that seemed to lodge somewhere at the back of his nose. Then he swung abruptly on his heel and lumbered back to his desk. Sergeant Warburton glanced at him, then at Jimmy and back to the other. As if to fill in the pause that lay somewhat heavily on the air, he crossed and closed the door. Then returned and automatically placed a chair for Jimmy, who gave him an affable nod and sat down. Warburton bit his lower lip, threw a glance at the desk, wondering anxiously if he had perhaps exhibited towards Jimmy an unnecessary attentiveness from his superior’s viewpoint. However, Inspector Crow hadn’t noticed, or if he had was far too preoccupied to care.

Jimmy leaned forward and tapped his cigarette against the large ashtray on the desk. Crow raised his head and regarded him with an expression that contrived successfully to combine a weary tolerance with an implacable hostility.

“Go on,” he said, the sarcasm falling from his lips lightly as a sack of coals, “make yourself at home.”

“Charmingly hospitable of you,” Jimmy murmured. He reclined lazily in his chair and went on: “Glad I found you in.”

“Pleasure’s entirely yours.”

Jimmy smiled and continued imperturbably: “I felt I just had to know how you were in health.”

Crow gave a grunt. He picked up his cold pipe in his thick fingers and slowly filled it with a black, evil-looking tobacco, tamping it down into the worn, crusted bowl.

Watching him, Jimmy observed: “Now this should be interesting. I’ve never seen anyone smoke liquorice before.”

The other grunted again, but said nothing. Carefully he lit up. When it was drawing satisfactorily, he leaned back heavily in his chair and said: “Now, Mr. Smartie, if it’s not troubling you too much, perhaps you’d be good enough to explain exactly why you’ve called. Apart from the reason you’ve already given, which is just your idea of being funny.”

Jimmy produced the report of Sam Hodson’s death, which he’d clipped from the newspaper and passed it over to Crow. The Inspector took it and glowered at it suspiciously. He read it through carefully, placed it thoughtfully on his desk. He tried to appear enigmatic for the clipping conveyed absolutely nothing to him. At the same time, he knew it must have some significance, otherwise Jimmy Strange wouldn’t have taken the trouble to draw his attention to it, Whatever his opinion of Jimmy Strange from most angles—an opinion which was regrettably practically unrepeatable, certainly unprintable, nevertheless he held an unreserved if grudging admiration for him in one respect. He knew his underworld, and the Inspector had learned to put his shirt on any tip he handed out without so far catching a cold. Which was extremely useful to Inspector Crow. Now while Jimmy watched him amusedly and Sergeant Warburton edged forward and craned his neck to examine the newspaper cutting, the Inspector tried to figure out what in hell it added up to. After a ponderous silence, during which he totted up precisely nothing, he said with a non-committal growl: “And what am I supposed to do about it?”

“Unbutton those ears, Big Chief Bull-Face,” Jimmy said, “and Laughing Water will bang it out for you on the war drums.”

Crow snorted but listened.

Jimmy told him crisply and graphically how he and Sandra had met Sam Hodson outside the Regis Hotel, of their subsequent sojourn to the American Bar, of how the man in horn-rims had joined the party, of Charles Vernon’s arrival, introduced by the fat man as his nephew. “Now,” Jimmy concluded, stubbing out his cigarette, “take another peek at that clipping, particularly the bit quoting the nephew.”

Crow ran his eye down the account and read aloud:

“Mr. Charles Vernon, nephew of the deceased, describing the tragedy, said, ‘My uncle was about to drink a glass of port when he suddenly collapsed and died in my arms’—”

Inspector Crow broke off and glanced sharply at Jimmy. “Cripes!” he said.

“I hoped you’d catch on,” said Jimmy.

“The deceased having previously declared with emphasis,” Sergeant Warburton observed sententiously, “that he never indulged in port.”

The Inspector gave him a scowl and, an inevitable blush suffusing his aesthetic features, the Sergeant subsided. Jimmy grinned up at him in mock wonderment and the other threw him a petulant look.

Followed a silence in the room, except for the rumble of traffic from the Whitehall and the peculiar bubbling noise from Crow’s pipe. The detective glanced at the clipping again. “And then there’s this chap what’s his name?—Turner,” he mused, fondling his massive chin.

“He could certainly corroborate what Hodson said.” Jimmy nodded.

“He could if he wanted to, you mean?”

“I think I’m having practically no difficulty in following your train oif thought.”

“Thing is, where’s Turner now?”

Jimmy hesitated a fraction, then shrugged. “Had the impression he wasn’t resident at the Regis. But you’ll take care of that.”

“Anyway,” Crow muttered, “we’ll have a little heart-to-heart with this nephew. And a post-mortem on Hodson should tell us if he was poisoned.”

Warburton put in: “Then your opinion, sir, is that poison may have been administered in the port wine by the nephew with the object of bringing about his uncle’s demise?”

“Well, he wouldn’t slip him a dose of cough-medicine, would he?”

“Quite, sir. And if I may, I would suggest—”

“The day I find myself asking you for a suggestion,” Crow rasped, “will be the day I quit this ruddy job.”

“Quite, sir, quite—” Warburton hastily tried to stem the other’s rising wrath.

“Until then,” Inspector Crow bellowed remorselessly, “shut your trap.”

Jimmy coughed delicately, lit a fresh cigarette and stood up.

“Much as I long to linger amidst this cosy little scene,” he murmured. “this charming atmosphere of, one might almost say, domestic bliss, I fear I must tear myself away.” With a bow to the Inspector he crossed to the door. “It’s been such an amusing chat,” he went on genially, “and I know I can leave the matter we’ve discussed in your hands with complete confidence—that you’ll make a most unholy hash of it.” And with a parting smile and: “So long, flattie,” he was gone.

* * * *

Some time later he turned into the Regis Hotel and strolled casually to the lift.

“American Bar.”

“Yessir.” It was the same liftboy who’d been on duty that morning when he and Sandra had encountered Sam Hodson, now deceased. As the lifl descended he recognized Jimmy and said perkily: “Oh, it’s you, sir. Good morning.”

Jimmy gave him a friendly nod. “By the way,” he said casually, “that snapshot you picked up, remember? You wouldn’t by any chance have forgotten to return it to the chap who dropped it?”

The boy grinned at him. “You mean that snap of the two gents and the two beauts?”

Jimmy inclined his head.

“Why?” the kid asked.

“Nothing really. Only if giving it back to him had slipped your mind—I’m sure you must be kept pretty busy, run off your feet in fact—I think I know someone who might have liked to buy it.”

The other regarded him, head on one side speculatively.

“Now you come to mention it,” he said, as if calling to mind a matter that had somehow escaped his attention, “I do believe—how much would your friend give for it?”

Jimmy took out a note from his wallet and said: “Would this do?”

The youngster’s mouth opened. Then he wiped the expression of pleasurable anticipation off his face and replaced it with a sly leer. “Make it two,” he said.

Jimmy smiled gently and, with what seemed to be a single, swift movement, firmly pinched the other’s nose and a moment later stepped back, the snapshot in his hand. He pocketed it, while the liftboy, gingerly rubbing his nose, blinked at him with incredulous watering eyes. Jimmy flicked him a coin. “For being greedy,” he said, as the lift stopped and he stepped out.

He was about to proceed straight to the bar with the idea of manhandling a large Scotch when a figure rose from a table in his path. Jimmy recognized him and a gleam of elation lit his narrowed eyes. The man moved towards him excitedly and grabbed his arm. Jimmy didn’t like anyone to do that, believing in having both hands free at all times. Glancing down at the other’s hand he said: “This arm belongs to Daddy.”

The man released his hold with an apologetic smile.

“This is unbelievable luck,” he said. “You’re the one person I want to see and the last I ever hoped to.”

Jimmy regarded him quizzically.

“As it happens,” he said, “our wishes could be mutual.”

“I’ve been wondering how the devil I could find you. And when I saw you walk in you could’ve knocked me down with a feather.” He nodded towards a corner. “Let’s sit over there, it’s—er—quiet.”

He led the way, turning to signal a waiter. They sat down and after the waiter had taken the order Jimmy said: “Why the hush-hush?”

“If you knew what I do,” was the response, “you wouldn’t want to shout it from the rooftops, either.”

“Don’t tell me,” Jimmy said softly, “you know who bumped off Sam Hodson?”

The man called Turner stared at him as if he was seeing a ghost. His eyes blinked shortsightedly behind his horn-rims.

“By cripes,” he gasped. “How did you—?” He broke off as the waiter approached with the drinks. He was the first to grab his and take a long gulp. Jimmy, eyeing him over the rim of his own glass, saw that his hand was shaking. Turner put his drink down with a sigh, took out his cigarette case and extended it to Jimmy, who, seeing the contents were a Turkish brand, shook his head. The other took one for himself, tapped it nervously on his case, lit it and leaned across the table.

“Now, listen,” he said in a low voice, “I don’t know how much you’ve twigged about all this, but I’m putting my cards on the table. I’m going to take you into my confidence.” He paused for a moment as if something ironically amusing had suddenly occurred to him. Then he went on. “Obviously you read about poor old Hodson fading out, and it seems after your comment just now there was one little thing in the newspaper report which also struck yon as odd.”

“I’m not laying down my hand yet,” Jimmy told him.

Turner drew back at the thrust and gave a wry grimace. Then he shrugged.

“Okay,” he said. “But I’ll ask you if you remember something that happened yesterday morning—right hers in this very bar? When Hodson asked me to name my drink.”

Jimmy’s expression was blandly vague.

“I’ll refresh your memory,” the other said obligingly, leaning closer.

“Go right ahead.”

“When Hodson asked me what mine was I said it was a sherry. And he said he hated the stuff.” Jimmy permitted a glimmering of recollection to begin to animate his features. Encouraged, his companion continued: “And even went on to say he thought port was a foul drink, too—now does it come back to you?”—he bit the words out with emphasis—“and never drank the stuff.”

“It rings a bell now you mention it,” Jimmy said.

Turner gave him a gimlet look from behind his glasses. “I’m glad of that,” he said, “because when I draw your attention to this—in case you didn’t notice it before”—Jimmy let the sarcastic edge blunt itself against him by appearing unaware of it, while the other drew a newspaper clipping from his pocket—“you’ll get what I’m driving at.”

Jimmy at once perceived the clipping to be a report of Hodson’s death similar to the one he had seen earlier. Though cut from another newspaper it was in fact practically word for word what he had already read for himself. Turner’s forefinger pointed out the significant quotation. Jimmy gave a creditable impersonation of someone overcome with shocked surprise.

“Hell’s bells,” he exclaimed, “why hadn’t that struck me?”

Studied disbelief that it hadn’t was in the other’s stare. Then he shrugged as if to convey that Jimmy’s pretended obtuseness was neither here nor there anyway and said, his voice slightly hoarse with the weight of his observation: “Only you and I, apart from Vernon himself, of course, know he murdered his uncle.”

Jimmy refrained from observing: “Only the three of us, plus Scotland Yard.” Instead he contrived to look suitably impressed. Turner tapped the ash off his Turk, the stub of which was discoloured and soggy, glanced cautiously round to reassure himself no one was within earshot and Jimmy waited for him to unload. He had a pretty good idea of the lines along which the other’s heart-to-heart piece would run.

“Listen,” the man was telling him across the table, “I’m giving it you straight. I met Hodson the night before last for the first time. It was in this bar.” He hesitated, then went on. “Now, you might as well know it. I used to be in the—er—well, the Castle-in-Spain line, gold brick racket, sunken treasure gag—whatever you like to call it. You’d be surprised how many mugs fall for the old stuff, though of course I was subtle, I gave it a fresh twist. Are you with me?”

“I’m right alongside.”

“Okay. Well, anyway, a little while ago I fall for the oldest confidence trick in the world myself. Yes, believe me, I meet a girl and I want to marry her.” He gave a little laugh. “Imagine it!”

Jimmy preferred not to imagine it, but didn’t say anything and the other proceeded. “But when she comes to realize my—er—profession she begs me to quit. And I’m with her all the way. I want to quit too. I want to settle down with a comfortable income from strictly on the level sources. But where’s the dough coming from? You need capital to set yourself up and I’d never thought much about the rainy day and money in the old sock. So I’m turning all this over in my mind and then, night before last like I told you, this Hodson egg buys me a drink. Well, when a real live New Zealand Sheep King starts putting out the welcome sign and telling me his life-story just as if we’re old-time buddies, can you blame me if I say to myself here’s the cash I need waiting, just waiting for the milking?”

“I see your point of view,” Jimmy told him.

“Anyway, to cut a long story to the bare outlines, I went to it and gave him a really sweet little bedtime yarn. He bites at it like a hungry pike, hook, line and fishing rod.” He sighed regretfully,

“Had him landed for thousands—then his nephew goes and croaks him.”

There was a pause. Jimmy was admitting to himself Turner’s yarn was somewhat franker—up to a point—than he’d been expecting. Not that it made any essential difference to the setup. It merely indicated the other realized, as things were, the more convincing his account of his meeting with Hodson the better. Even if it meant revealing himself in a not exactly pearly light.

Jimmy murmured: “You seem pretty sure Vernon did it.”

The other nodded, lit another cigarette from his used stub. “This is the way I see it,” he said, crushing the butt into a mess in the ashtray. “Vernon—he’s a chemist, don’t forget, so he should know all the poison tricks—dopes the old boy’s glass of whisky. Whisky, see? Then, when Hodson’s kicked the bucket he washes out the glass so’s…there’ll be no trace of the poison. Vernon’s smart and to make it look natural and fit in with the story he’s going to tell he doesn’t want it to be empty. But he makes a slip, because what does he do? He refills the glass with port, which he was drinking himself, not knowing, or forgetting his uncle never touched the stuff.”

Jimmy, who had already formed in his own mind this reconstruction of what had occurred, looked thoughtful, then nodded his head in agreement. “Certainly seems that’s about the way it went.”

“You bet. And if you need a motive to make it stick—Vernon is his uncle’s sole heir. Hodson told me that himself.” He leaned forward again. “What other explanation could there be for the port being there?” He indicated the newspaper clipping. “The old boy wouldn’t touch it with a bargepole. So how comes it’s in his glass? His nephew.”

He sat back and finished off his drink. Jimmy signalled the waiter, and when the drinks had been brought, the other shifted a little restlessly in his chair before he began talking again.

“You see,” he muttered tentatively, “I—well—of course, I ought to go to the cops. But it’s tricky for me. I’ve got a record. And they won’t say to themselves I was pally with Hodson just because I liked the colour of his blue eyes. So I’m in a kind of a spot. They’ll pinch Vernon for the murder, but they’ll pinch me too, for the little game I was playing—even though I never actually pulled anything off. I’d take a chance and spin ’em a stanza, but—” He shrugged off the idea as one that would prove utterly unacceptable to the police. “So you see how it is? I reckon Vernon oughtn’t to get away with it, but what can I do to stop him?”

Jimmy only offered: “Naturally you want to keep your nose clean.” And waited with inward and somewhat sardonic amusement for what was coming next… Turner nervously knocked a negligible amount of ash from his cigarette, waiting for a word of encouragement, which wasn’t forthcoming. So said:

“But yon could tip the cops.”

Jimmy simulated surprise. “How?”

“Don’t you know as much as I do?” the other urged him. “Why can’t you go to Scotland Yard, tell ’em what you’ve read in the paper and how you know Hodson never drank port? You’re right in the clear, you’d be all right.”

Jimmy considered for a moment. Then: “Why should I? What’s in it for me?”

Turner blinked at him as if his finer sensibilities were faintly outraged. “There isn’t anything in it for either of us,” he expostulated. “That’s not the idea. Not the idea at all.”

“What would be the idea?”

“Well, it’s simply a question of not letting a murderer get away with it.”

“Vernon hasn’t murdered you or me.”

“No, but—well, I mean—it’s a matter of principle. Moral principle.” He seemed to experience a certain difficulty in getting the word off his teeth. As if the sentiment was a little out of his line.

“I get it.” Jimmy smiled at him thinly. “You’ve gone all high-minded. Pardon me if I wasn’t exactly in step with you. I imagined you were just out for revenge.”

Turner shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Then he grinned broadly. “Okay,” he admitted. “Supposing it is just that. Vernon did me out of thousands. All the same, he’s still a dirty killer, and you ought to want to see him swing.”

There was that faraway expression in Jimmy’s eyes.

“Besides,” the other was continuing, “if I were placed like you—with nothing to lose—I wouldn’t like to feel I was withholding important information from the police.”

“Vernon was a stranger to you, you say?”

Turner nodded emphatically. “Never set eyes on him before yesterday. Why?”

“I was just wondering, perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad notion to look him up, have a chat. Maybe you know where I might find him?”

“The hotel can put you on to that—but I don’t see where it’d get you. And you might say something which would make him suspicious, scare him off.”

“He’d stick around until the will was settled.”

“Not if you put it into his bean you were on to him. Be a damn’ sight too anxious to save his skin to worry over anything else.”

Jimmy seemed to think round the point and after a moment nodded agreement. “Maybe you’re right.” He brushed some flakes of cigarette ash off his coat and stood up. “Might as well make a move now.”

“You’re going to the police?”

Jimmy nodded. The other was on his feet.

“You’ll keep me out of this, won’t you?” he said anxiously.

“Take it easy.”

“Okay. I’ll stick around if you like till you get back. Then you can wise me how they react.”

“I was going to ask you where I could get in touch with you.”

“I’ll be here.” And Turner sat down again.

Jimmy bestowed one of his most charming smiles upon him and went out of the bar. Gaining Piccadilly, he paused unobtrusively in a doorway and lit a cigarette, never taking his eyes off the hotel. He remained there watching for several minutes. Then, satisfied the man in horn-rims hadn’t planned to beat it after he’d left him, but was, as he’d suggested, awaiting his return, Jimmy grabbed a taxi.

He was back within twenty minutes, accompanied by Inspector Crow and Sergeant Warburton, hovering in the background, and regarding the surroundings of the American Bar with prim disapproval. To say Turner was considerably taken aback by the approach of Jimmy’s two companions would be an understatement. He was not too surprised, however, to leap up and make a dash for it. Crow lumbered forward to close with him, but the man was as resourceful as he was agile. He managed to hook his foot round the Inspector’s ankle and send him sprawling into the arms of Sergeant Warburton, as the latter rushed forward to lend assistance. With a thin smile of amusement at the slightly incongruous spectacle of Crow sagging in Warburton’s arms, Jimmy stood between Turner and the glass swing doors of the wide stairway ascending to the street level. As Turner rushed him, Jimmy stood carefully to one side and deftly flicked the other’s glasses off his nose. The man gave a yelp of blind despair and collided with a table. He was still pushing myopically at a large mirror, under the mistaken impression it was the way out, when Crow and the Sergeant pounced on him. After that he said he would go quietly.

* * * *

“They picked up Vernon all right, of course,” Jimmy told Sandra over a drink at her flat some time later. “Blustered and threatened all sorts of nasty things for the old Crow, he did, for detaining him. Quite convincing he made it sound, I understand. Busy with his studies, important work, and he couldn’t tell him any more about his uncle’s death than anyone could read in the newspapers, that it’d been a heart attack. I think Vernon hinted rather broadly perhaps Crow couldn’t read—” Jimmy broke off and chuckled.

“Did he try to hide that he was Hodson’s sole heir?” Sandra asked.

“Not a bit. Asked if being a sole heir constituted a crime, if so, was it something new, because he’d never heard of it before.”

“Inspector Crow must have loved him,” Sandra said.

“It didn’t get him any place. Crow just stuck at him like the old rhinoceros he is and suddenly Vernon cracked. Went bang off the handle in a fit of hysterics. Shouted that if Crow knew so much he might as well know the lot. Then asked politely to be allowed to make a statement. And as statements go, it couldn’t have gone much further.”

“He admitted he’d done it?”

Jimmy nodded. “Full confession. He’d concocted the dope, which apart from its immediate deadly effect, produced the signs of heart failure. Described how he administered it in Hodson’s whisky—”

“Exactly the way the other man—Turner—had told you,” Sandra said.

“Word for word.” Jimmy smiled. “And who should have been able to give a better running commentary, so to speak, if he couldn’t.”

She looked at him questioningly.

“The nephew’s statement implicated Turner as accessory. According to Vernon it was the other who’d suggested the idea and worked it out.”

Sandra was wide-eyed.

“Turner didn’t deny it,” Jimmy went on, amused at her incredulity.

“They were going fifty-fifty over the proceeds. And if Vernon hadn’t bungled it by refilling Hodson’s glass with port instead of whisky, chances are they’d have got away with it.”

“I suppose,” Sandra found her voice, “when he saw the bit in the paper about the drink, he was afraid you might notice it too and wonder. That’s why he told you that story in the hotel, pinning the whole thing on to Vernon?”

“He felt his buddy had dropped the brick so he could carry the baby. Quite a natural way of looking at it from his slant.”

Sandra shuddered a little. “What a horrible pair!”

“Choice couple,” Jimmy agreed.

She glanced at him suddenly.

“Come to think of it,” she said slowly, “you haven’t explained why you suspected Turner of being mixed up in it.”

“Come to think of it, I haven’t.”

“How did you guess he knew the other one all the time and his story was a pack of lies?”

He grinned at her over his glass.

“Come on,” she said, “what are you hiding up your sleeve?”

He shook his head. “Not up my sleeve,” he said, “in my pocket,” producing the snapshot he’d got from the liftboy. “His nibs the nephew dropped it in the lift, the morning we met him.”

And Sandra found herself looking at the two pert, pretty, unprotesting young girls in the embrace of the two affectionate young men. One being Charles Vernon, the other Turner.